Hold Fast the Night
by Mardahin
Summary: Finally, finally, she slips into bed, giving Rhys a light peck on the cheek before nestling down and closing her eyes." Gwen/Rhys. Gwen/Owen.


**Author's Note: ** A response to the Torchwood Flashfic prompt "Out of Time."

--...--...--...--

23:47

It's late. Near midnight, Gwen thinks, although she isn't certain until she stumbles up the stairs and into the living room. It takes three tries for her muddled brain to make sense of the glowing numbers on the DVD player, and not for the first time does she regret falling asleep on the ride home. The twenty minutes of near-coma she managed while leaning against the window were never worth the inevitable disorientation, bruises, and neck pain that surfaced the next morning. If only she could convince her body of that fact.

It's dark, but she doesn't mind the absence of light like she once did. There are scarier things than the darkness, and she's certainly seen enough of them to know. Rhys has long gone to bed, but then he gave up any attempts at staying awake when she'd be "getting home late" a few weeks into her transfer; she's never begrudged him the sleep. Close to half of her nights are spent elsewhere, in part or in whole, and one of them should be getting their money's worth out of the new pillow-top mattress.

After two barked shins, a coffee table that she swears has moved sometime in the last twenty-four - no, wait, forty-eight - hours, and an almost-suicidal crossing of the gap that divides the living and sleeping areas, she finally makes it to the bedroom. Ten minutes have passed, according to the clock on the night-stand, and all she wants is to bury herself under the awful purple comforter Rhys' mother gave them and sleep for a week. Habit keeps her on her feet, however, stepping into the washroom and mechanically stripping off the make-up that she never used to wear to work, brushing her teeth, leaving her clothing - thankfully suspicious substance-free - in the hamper to be dealt with later. The light is blinding to her night-eyes, but necessary if she doesn't want to wake with mascara trails.

Finally, finally, she slips into bed, giving Rhys a light peck on the cheek before nestling down and closing her eyes.

01:15

Gwen shivers, and for the fourth time in an hour debates getting up to find something warmer to wear. It's ridiculous; she spends her days catching aliens rain or shine, working _underground_, and yet here she is, fucking _freezing_ while lying in bed with her perfectly good boyfriend. She tells herself that it's not worth getting up over; she's exhausted. Eighteen hours on the clock, with only a brief nap on the hub couch to break up the day; she'll fall asleep soon enough. If she gets up now, she'll get her blood pumping again and it'll be harder to fall asleep in the long run.

01:32

After a long and detailed mental inventory of her currently clean wardrobe, Gwen slips out of bed and pulls a grey wool sweater from the second drawer of the bureau. It was her grandfather's, once upon a time, and she normally brings it out only when she's feeling down about something. It also happens to be the warmest sweater she owns, which is purely coincidental. Feeling warmer already, Gwen crawls back into bed and tries not to think too hard about why she's feeling cold, or why the smell of old wool has become far more comforting in recent months. Instead, she starts composing her report on the events of the day. "Initial call came in at..."

02:28

With an annoyed sigh, Gwen throws off the comforter and heads for the bathroom. She _knew_ she shouldn't have had that last cup of coffee. She's two pages into her report, at least on the computer in her mind, and she makes a conscious effort not to look at the clock by her bedside when she returns.

She knows it's late, knows she should be sleeping, but something doesn't want to disengage; she's learned the hard way that she can't force it. It's not because the day was gory or unduly disturbing; that brings nightmares, not insomnia. It's more like a switch that flips when she crawls into bed, jump-starting her mind and setting it on a looping track about nothing in particular. She'd tried to explain it to Rhys, once, but she'd stopped almost as soon as began; she was never sure what she could tell him, anymore, so she settled for nothing. Owen was another possibility, but a tricky one. If she asked him casually, he'd make a crack about how she never seemed to have trouble sleeping in _his_ bed, and she'd just wind up shagging him in the storage closet because that was what happened when they got snippy. But if she asked him officially, then he'd have to tell Jack; Jack has enough demons of his own without adding hers to the mix, and it's not like the occasional sleepless night is affecting her work. Everyone takes catnaps on the couch - that's what it's there for, after all; it might be old and musty-smelling, but it still serves its purpose well enough.

She's also sure the insomnia isn't a result of her affair, which just makes the guilt, when it comes, that much worse. It's one of the things she tries _not_ to think about when she can't sleep.

04:15

She feels Rhys shift beside her, and a moment later he is up and heading to the bathroom. When he returns, she could say something - anything, really - and he'd stay up with her. Offer to use 'creative methods' to get her back to sleep, tell her about what he's been watching on the telly lately, share the latest twists and turns in Dav's failure of a love life. He'd be worried for all the wrong reasons, and she knows that she doesn't have the heart to tell him that the nights when the dreams come are the nights she stays away. So instead, she plays dead-to-the-world as he staggers back to bed, jostling her and rearranging the comforter as he settles. She's not sure who she's protecting with her silence, anymore. She's not sure she wants to know.

After his breathing evens out, she sits up and studies his sleeping form. The moon has set, and it's an oddly cloudless night, so the only light comes from the digital alarm that she's been avoiding all night. The red light and elongated shadows turn her boyfriend's face into that of a stranger, all harsh peaks and blood-lit valleys where it was once smooth and soft. She turns away, and flips her pillow over in a vain attempt to find a few hours of sleep before the morning. The scent of detergent is harsh on the cool-side, and her eyes water as she resists the urge to sneeze.

05:49

Ten minutes to the alarm - the _early_, an-hour-before-the-real-alarm, alarm - and Gwen surrenders to the inevitable. Her report is composed, she's had all the introspection she can possibly avoid for one night, and she's about ready to kill for a cup of Jack's industrial strength coffee. Ianto always brews a pot at six, she knows this from the nights she's spent on the couch engaging in slightly-longer-than-catnaps, and it's about two stages above sulphuric acid in potency. The thought makes her smile, because Owen has more than once complained that Ianto needs to put a warning label out when he brews the stuff, since it shouldn't be consumed without a buffering agent (preferably a chocolate chip or jelly-filled buffering agent, depending on the doctor's mood and how likely Jack looks to send Ianto out for snacks).

The dull throbbing behind her eyes will get better with some caffeine and a shower, not necessarily in that order, and if things are quiet she can catch a few hours of sleep on the couch while everyone else is writing their reports. It will invite questions from Jack, which is the last thing she needs, but she can't help that at this point. She doesn't _choose_ to stay up nights thinking about everything and nothing, and it's not the job that's keeping her up, either - not in the traditional sense. She doesn't know what it is, but it's been happening more often; it's one of the reasons she's been spending less and less time at home, even though Rhys has been voicing his opinions on the matter more stridently.

Tomorrow night, or maybe the night after, she'll come home, she'll kiss Rhys, and they'll both sleep just fine after a quick shag.

She's sure of it.

Finis


End file.
